


Acceptance

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Alternate Universe, End Game Spoilers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hardest thing to do is to accept yourself, with all your flaws and insecurities, beauties and sadnesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance

_I can’t accept it._

_I can’t. If I accept it, it makes everything up to this point meaningless, and if that’s true, what’s the point of fighting? Why have I come this far, if not to reclaim who I am and become who I was meant to be? You can’t answer those questions, Luke. You don’t have an answer for any of it._

He draws in a ragged breath, and another, and another, until they become a seamless amalgamation of sounds and stutters and repeats. He swings at the oncoming army - for there is no other way to describe the mass of people surrounding him - and kills with every heartbeat and every slice, hears the screams of men and women as they fall before him. They fear him, even now, even when he is pathetic and defeated, and though he should feel worse than before, he instead feels elated.

“I am Luke fon Fabre!” he snarls, the shout rising within him unbidden, a phoenix from the ashes.

He knows this is who he is, and it is with a smirk, and not a heavy heart, that he fights back all the harder.

 _How can you say you’re a different person? Isn’t that like saying “Luke fon Fabre” is dead? That_ I _am dead? I still breathe, I still fight, I still bleed. I am still alive, even if years ago I questioned even that fact. Who are you to say that we are different, when you’re just as stubborn and pigheaded as I was? As I am? You’re a replica,_ my _replica, and you have defeated even me, your original._

_I still can’t accept it. None of it._

_I can’t accept you. Your existence. Your words. How can you say you are living, capable of anything beyond the simple processes of a replica’s mind? How are you even still able to create relationships, fall in love? Aren’t you nothing more than a mimicry of me?_

He knows. He knew the moment Luke won, the moment he gave up his sword, the moment swarms of bodies attacked him en masse. There was never a question, never an answer, from either the gods or his replica or himself, and briefly he wonders if he truly needs one. At one time, the thought would have immediately been destroyed, but now?

Now is different. Now, he is Luke fon Fabre. Now, the question nor the answer truly matter anymore.

The first blade that breaks through his defenses slices through his arm, leaving a furrow in his bicep. It stings, but he hardly notices, too focused to take out the nearest people to him. Each mark is a new mark of pride, of _himself_ , and he will not deny himself that opportunity, no matter the pain that accompanies it. He wants to laugh, to shout out loud, but his breaths are short, and he must focus, for if he falls here, then the person who stole everything from him too will fall, and that cannot be allowed to happen.

He stumbles, hand slipping on the hilt of his sword, and he knows then that he will not live a moment longer.

_I cannot accept that you may have found a better way to live than I ever could have. Your ideals, your naiveté, all of it - though it has led you down every single wrong path, you somehow still manage to make things right, or at least try. Before, you never would have tried. You would have passed on the blame, or tried to argue your way out. Now, you think about things, like… like you’re a normal human being._

_You’re not supposed to be normal. You were easy to hate before, and should still be easy to hate. Nothing has changed._

_No. Nothing has…_

He kills several more. There is still an army that rushes past him, leaving him alone in the massive, empty, white room as he slides down the pillar at his back. He cannot remember falling back, or feeling the impact, or coughing, but he feels the solid weight behind him, the swords shifting within him, and the blood on his lips, and he knows these facts must be true.

Breathing is nigh impossible, but he manages it for a few moments more, and lets his eyes close so he can picture her face, her eyes, her blond hair one more time, and the faces of his parents, which have grown less clear with every passing year, yet are newly fresh in his mind. He pictures a world without Van and wonders - no, not anymore. He is certain now that will happen.

_I cannot accept you, Luke, even now._

_But… I can see hope for the first time in many years. And you’re carrying that hope with you._

_Don’t screw this up, rep - no, Luke. You have earned at least being called by a name._


End file.
